


fucking up my happy ending

by neofightMe



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Not a Character Study, Post-Canon, a half-hearted look into vriska's brain before i upend 300lb of salt on the fic, act 6/7 salt, au where terezi and john grab vriska and gtfo, do not be fooled by the wordcount and the summary, mentions of equine genitalia, seriously its not, so much vriska
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 03:39:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14299968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neofightMe/pseuds/neofightMe
Summary: Your name is Vriska Serket and you won. You’re the winner. It’s you.(Read the tags)





	fucking up my happy ending

>>

_ Breathe in violence and love  _ _  
_ _ I was born on the scene  _

_ Now it runs in my blood _ _  
_ _ Yeah you know what I mean _

_ When I’m dead and gone _ _  
_ _ Will they sing about me? _

_ Dead and gone, will they scream my name? _

>>

This is a bad idea and you know it. 

The sun is high in the sky, beginning its arc. The other trolls are likely fast asleep in their coons at this hour, everyone except for Kanaya, but she’s undead so whatever. 

The humans might be awake. Maybe? Its early for them. You think. 

Maybe. 

You climb to the top of the hive that Terezi arranged for you, don your bright orange godhood, and give your blue wings an experimental flap, and take to the skies. 

The sky is so very, very blue here. Alternia’s skies were never this blue, even in the day. Always edging more on yellow-green. 

You wish your outfit wasn’t this fucking orange. You’d have blended in perfectly, you and your sky-blue wings. They’re just for show, of course. Symbolic of some pupation or something, it’s all bullshit anyway. 

It’s all fucking bullshit. 

You’re high up enough now that you’re starting to get cold, even though the white sun(which you’re carefully not looking at) dazzles your vision. Its warmth doesn’t last a second before being whisked away from the wind. 

You keep ascending. The air is thin, you’re barely able to breathe. Your eyes are watering, and you wipe them fiercely. 

You reach your arm up and out. You want to hold onto  _ something _ . 

A strong gust of wind throws you off course, of course. Your forward momentum is cut and you’re left fighting it with your flight. 

A speck of blue on bright blue and you  _ know.  _ You want to shriek your frustration at him, cry your tears of loss, but instead you ball it up into a tight hot wad of anger and slot that behind a mask of cool apathy. 

“John,” you say. “Finally decided to leave your house?” 

“What are you doing, Vriska.” 

No question mark. No inflection. He just sounds tired. 

“Just decided to go for a bit of a morning flight!” You grin at him but it turns out more like baring your fangs. He’s not impressed. 

“Vriska, are you trying to reach the door again.” 

“No,” you lie. 

He sighs. He sighs long and deep, a bone-deep exhalation of  _ bluuuuuuuuh _ . 

The silence stretches. He doesn’t seem up to talking. 

“I just wanted to see it. I just wanted to fucking see it, okay?” 

Your voice trembles and oh god you fucking hate that. You fucking hate this anxious wreck of a shell walking around calling herself Vriska Serket. 

“We didn’t track you down and bring you back for you to do this, Vriska.” 

He turns away from you because even he is sick of your bullshit. Well, they got you, and now they have to deal with you!

“I never asked to be brought back here.” Your anger spills over, cracks your calm, and suddenly you’re trembling all over and there’s tears in your eyes and  _ fuck this, fuck it all _ . 

“You were going to die out there. Fade into nonexistence along with all the ghosts.” 

“That, right there, was the sacrifice I was totally prepared to make! I killed him, it was working, I was  _ winning _ !” 

“Then congratulations, Vriska. You won.” 

He spins in the air, gently. He almost seems to be gesturing at the land below and- 

_ Fuck _ . “What the fuck am I supposed to do now, John? I never planned for this. Any of this.” 

“Live, I guess?” He shrugs. He’s facing away from you again, staring right into the big bright sun. 

You were never gonna live for this. 

He sighs. “Go home, Vriska. Go to sleep. It’s too early to be awake for humans and it’s too late for trolls.” 

He descends, a gentle blur of breeze. You’re left up here. When you drift too far up you hit a wall of wind that shoves you back rudely. 

_ Don’t even think about it. _

You let yourself drop out of the sky because for once, not everything is about you.

>>

_ The voices in my brain scream so loud _ _  
_ _ I’m begging them to give it a rest, for once _

_ I don’t wanna fight tonight _

>>

You land on her roof, use a little luck and wiggle her window open. 

Terezi is a light sleeper. Talks in her sleep. Sleepwalks a lot. She’s already sitting up and wiping sopor off her face by the time you stand and face her. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks. 

“Terezi. Am I a bad person?” 

She yawns. “Absolutely. The worst.” 

You turn to leave but she’s probably less sleepy than you thought because she’s up behind you closing a warm grip over your wrist. Slippery with sopor but she’s surer than iron and you don’t fight her. 

“Vriska, what’s wrong?” 

“Did I even matter, in the long run?” 

“Did any of us?” she retorts. “If I’m honest you probably mattered the most out of all of us.” 

Usually that would satisfy you. Today, you’re in a weird mood. 

“It wasn’t worth it. All the sacrifices I’ve made. Everything I’ve done to make us all strong and prepared and none of it even fucking mattered,  _ fuck _ .” 

Terezi places one sopor-sticky hand on your face and groans, “go to sleep, Vriska.” 

“You know, if nothing I ever did made a fucking difference then I’m just nothing but a  _ really shitty person! _ Fuck, Terezi, I can’t just go to sleep on that.” 

She doesn’t have a reply to that. You can see her, chewing over words in that brilliant thinkpan of hers. 

You need to explain.

“I’ve done some bad things, but I thought if I could just maybe achieve something in the end, maybe, maybe it wouldn’t be as bad at the end of the day, and-” 

“That’s not how redemption arcs work, Vriska. You’ve never had one, I guess, not even when you were other-Vriska.”

“What the fuck are you talking about.” 

You back away from her. She sniffs for you, and clearly decides that you’re okay. 

“Whatever. Ignore me. I’m going back to sleep.” 

She goes to pat you on the shoulder, and ends up groping you instead. You lean into her. You’re a wreck of questionable past decisions and regret and you need her touching you everywhere. 

You put your arms around her waist. She’s wearing a thin black tank and a pair of boxers and nothing but. 

For four seconds your bloodpusher is racing in your ears, your fingers are warmed from the heat of her skin, and you feel- something different. Something other than the desperate maelstrom of emotions at your heels that threaten to swallow you whole. 

You’re ready to let go and drown yourself in her. 

Then she threads her fingers in your hair, laughing good-naturedly, and says, “Another time, Vriska. Maybe tonight.” 

She twists herself out of your grasp, all grace and precision and economy of motion and climbs back into the coon. 

“You can stay if you want,” she says. 

It’s tempting. It’s tempting to climb in and tuck yourself into her embrace and  _ fuck _ , she even wants you to, every kind of deity knows that if anyone deserves to hate you it’s Terezi Pyrope but she doesn’t. 

She doesn’t hate you and here’s your problem right now- you’ve personally caused every bad thing in your life, and quite a few bad things in other people’s lives. Sometimes you see Terezi reach for something, misjudge the distance, stub her fingers and let out a deadpan ‘ow’. 

She’s blind. She never lets anyone forget, but for you she’s willing to make it a background detail, except when it comes to the forefront and presses down on your throatstem, the weight of your adolescent temper tantrums and the way you’ve marked the people around you by being made of barbed wire and broken shards of 8 balls left strewn around your old hive. 

You really need someone to hate you right now. 

“Sorry,” you tell her. You spend about two seconds hating yourself for the way her face moves across five different expressions, all further and further away from the dazed, sleepy smile she had, then landing on a careful neutral. 

“Okay,” she says. She’s unreadable. 

You take off. 

>>

_ Does the mirror in the corner see my shame, too _ _  
_ _ Or a different view? _

>>

If anyone should hate you it’s Kanaya and her human matesprit. 

You find yourself walking up the path through their neatly manicured lawnring, up the charmingly creaky wooden steps, and knocking on their door. 

Rose answers. 

“Yes?” 

Your throat is dry. Behind her shoulder is Kanaya, calmly reading something and sipping on a cup. 

You return your attention to Rose. Right on the tip of her collarbone, left bare by the loose button-up blouse she’s wearing, is a small red-purple mark. 

This was a bad idea. 

“Nothing, never mind.” 

You start to turn but she doesn’t let you. 

“Not nothing, clearly. It must be late for you.” 

“I’m leaving! God, just let me go and throw myself into that fucking lake, and enjoy your blissful forever with your rainbow drinker matesprit, in your perfect little hive and lawnring, and raise your brood of undoubtedly wonderful wrigglers!” 

Rose lets you go. As you cross the gate of their lawnring you think you hear her say, “Interesting.” 

>>

You feel like you’re being torn apart. 

You were so close to being a decent person! Maybe. You’re not sure, you might have glimpsed it in a dream, a sideplot happening while you were unleashing the ultimate weapon. 

Maybe you were never really meant to be a decent person? 

The thought sticks in your craw, souring like morsels of food stuck between your teeth. 

And then you were gonna be a hero. Make your friends stronger, more capable, more powerful so they’d stand a chance against the god empress of trollkind! Go take the ultimate weapon to the reality-eating demon, and erase him! Or whatever the fuck that thing even did. You unleashed it and some pretty colours came out, it’s not entirely clear what went down. 

But now you’re here, neither a hero nor a good person. All you have is blood on your clawtips and guilt in your pusher and the realisation that you really don’t like the person you’ve become. 

You stare up at the sky. The SBURB logo from the human’s session winks up at you, an inaccessible mirage in the distance. 

You return to your hive, draw the curtains so it’s dim enough that you feel restful instead of exposed. You strip and sink yourself under the sopor. 

The streets are empty. The wind wall high above whistles through grass and trees and hives, producing a familiar note. It's the one Desolation plays to keep its instrument in tune. 

It has four days and thirteen hours since you got to the new universe. As always, something feels missing from your life. The game you have played was a distraction that blinded you to that emptiness, to the missing piece of yourself that you can only ever hope to find, in stories of heroes, in the people around you that love you or hate you. 

Why did the Game happen? Why did it choose you? You don’t know. You’re just another iron in the fire for some invisible puppetmaster, humourless and worn. His coarse schemes are that of brilliance gone afoul, of a font of inspiration run dry, a writer weary of his work living in terror of what he has created. His riddle is Absence itself. It is a mystery dispersing altogether, like the moon's faint reflection, with even one pebble of inquiry dropped in its black well. It is the most diabolical riddle of all. [ 1]

It is a riddle with no answer, because the writer never planned to have one from the outset, and then said “fuck it, I’ll just try to finish this monstrosity”, and did whatever he could with a rusty spatula and a set of genitals attached to a horse. The poor horse will never recover, and neither will the readership. 

You have a feeling it’s going to be a long day. 

**Author's Note:**

> [1] Hussie, A. _Homestuck_ , p. 82. VIZ Media 2018. 
> 
> Happy 4-13!


End file.
